I want someone to explain it to me.

Tired of turning the subject over in my mind
in a philosophical way, trying in vain
to discover the key, the sufficient reason,
to the simple episode that preceded
my mother's subsequent death.
Six croissants inside a brown cardboard
bag placed inside her purse.
That's all. There is no mystery. I know. And I don't know.
It's that every human act is then
an absurdity: that was her last purchase here
on this earth, in this Argentina.
Then death. I ate that day
the six croissants. And the world went on.
At the moment when Mom was buying
no hair stood on end, no horse
showed its teeth,
a final thunderclap, I don't know, a fly falling
killed by a heart attack on her
wallet. I don't know. Some sign, a gesture,
something that told her, look, Mecha, this is
the last one. Someone please explain to me
what stupid death comes up with the idea of
taking a woman away
before breakfast.