The Friend

A quicksand pit
Colored like dried-up mud
I fall right in, happily.
Clumsy cushions break
My fall
And I sink in
Wrapped in my good friend's arms.
I lay down my weary head,
Ready to take
My final rest.
I'm not scared;
Not in this old armchair
And all its memories.
What is to come, will come.
I remember
My mother
Fading away here,
And, if I concentrate,
I can even see my grandmother
Exiting this world from her
Old friendly chair.
Must have been ninety years ago,
I'm not sure.
I just know
The place I want to leave Earth from
Is in the arms of this friend.