Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are property of Marvel Comics. For entertainment purposes only; no copyright infringement is intended. The situation itself, however, is based on my own family and its many gatherings. Enjoy!

The End, The Beginning
by Hoodoo

When I ran my hand though my hair today, several hairs were wrapped around my fingers. Gray hairs. Which is expected-all I got left is gray hairs.

I don't quite know what year is it any more. My memory's fuzzy, too, on what exact year I came back up here. All I do know is that it was a long long time ago. Longer than any regular person oughtta have lived.

But that's my life. Since I've gotten older, I can only rely on my memories part of the time. I get bits and pieces of the past-World War 1, Department H, Madripoor, the X-men. The old Weapon X program still gives me the occasional nightmare, damn them. It'll never go away.

Most of the memories, however, are a bit foggy. They aren't as clear as they used to be, and have taken on a generalized good or back feeling without revealing distinguishing details. Another sign of old age, I guess.

I don't know what's going on in the rest of the world-don't care either. Is the rest of mankind still around? Again, don't know; don't care. Once I found all the fish in the stream belly-up, drifting haphazardly with the current, so I'm pretty sure someone else is still out there. But the air is still crisp, and signs of animals are still out there.

They haven't screwed everything up quite yet.

Yeah, the wilderness is still intact. Mother Nature is slowly fixing any and all damage done to her by humans.

She will survive.

Me? I'm not sure. Lately, I hope not. I'm slowing down; grinding to a stop, I think. Hair's gray, muscles are soft. My knees ache. The sniffer still works, but my eyesight ain't what it used to be. A while back a tooth rotted out, and a replacement didn't come in. Feels funny.

Some times I wonder if accelerated healing wasn't my mutation. Maybe my mutation was something completely different, and healing was only a side effect. Maybe my real gift was that Death took a liking to my life, and didn't want to claim me. Kept me around, wouldn't take me from the living, no matter what happened. A million times I should have been killed in a fight, yet here I am, an old, old man.

But the way I'm slowing down, maybe Death's cashing in her chips; getting ready to claim her prize.

I moved back up here to get away from the dying. I've lived so long, everyone I know is gone. It got so I couldn't stand to be around people any more, knowing I'd get to like them and care for them, and then have to watch them die.

I do so miss them, though.

My fingers involuntarily handle the leather medicine bag I wear around my neck. It brings me comfort in this slowing, and keeps my most cherished memories sharp.

Only very rarely do my thick fingers gently open the pouch and retrieve the objects within. When I do hold them in my palm and look directly on them, the memories are so sharp they cut into my heart and unbidden tears burn my eyes.

Today I'm compelled to touch these talismans.

One by one they tumble from the leather bag. In a pile on my cot, they don't seem like much. But as I cradle them one at a time, the tears are undeniable.

I take the bright pink, metal earring and strain to read the word engraved on it. "Jubilee." I always wanted to ask her why she wore earrings with her name on them, but deep down I know it was because she was loud and exuberant and wanted the world to know her. Holding the jewelry, I can remember when I first met her in as a teen in the Outback. I also remember 76 years later, at her bedside when she died.

The earring goes back in the bag.

Next is a torn slip of paper, folded so tightly I dare not open it; it may not fit into the bag again. I know what it reads, and what it means, though. It's a portion of the deed to the Princess Bar in Madripoor. Not some of the most productive or legal years of my life, but important nonetheless. Tiger Tyger-what did happen to her? I never learned.

The paper goes back in the bag.

A lock of hair. Red as blazes, as bright as a rose. Jean. I slide the wisp under my nose, feeling the silken strands against my lips. Though my tears I smile: even after all these years, the harsh chemicals on the strands can still be smelled. I never told anyone that you dyed your hair as you got older. I loved that red mane as much as you did.

The red lock goes back in the bag.

My fingers encounter something more delicate than the paper. Something dry and scaly. Kitty's pet Lockheed shed like a snake every year, I recall. I wasn't present when Kitty died, and she was already buried when I learned of her passing. This bit of skin from her pet was the best I could do to keep a physical memory of her.

The skin goes back in the bag.

Finally, one other lock of hair. I always save it for last, because it brings me the most joy and the most pain. My darling Mariko. I wish I could have spent all my years with you. I would have given up everything in my world to be with you.

The black hair goes back in the bag.

That isn't all. I returned here, to the distant cabin Silver Fox and I shared. She needs no memento in my bag, her memory is all around me.

I place the leather strap of the bag around my neck and lay back on my cot. I continue to squeeze the pouch, and realize my hand is shaking uncontrollably.

The edges of my vision are blurry, slightly gray. It has nothing to do with my crying. My hearing is dulled, and I can't seem to feel my limbs.

A smile breaks my face.

"You've come for the ol' Canucklehead," I whisper.

Death hasn't left me behind! She hasn't forgotten me! She is here, at the side of my bed, welcoming me with open arms.

And with tears streaming down my face, and a smile, I join all the people I've ever loved, forever.