Ogre with Train

Blackberry season along the trail is coming to an end and my fingernails are so stained. 
But that gives me a perverse, familiar twinge of not quite living up to my sister's standards. A lifetime of feeling just fine about myself, yet always aware of my dear, beloved, oldest sister's just-right-ness, of never quite living up to my perception of her. Never mind that she was way, way off base politically, and a whole bunch of other stuff, she is forever so, so dear. 
Next week I will sit through a Requiem Mass, in the church where she was married, for her funeral. 
If it becomes too much to pay attention to, I'll have my own fingers to gaze down upon: nails stained with blackberries and blueberries, one with an ever-present vertical split, another identical to my mother's. (When I miss my mom, I look at my fingernails, and there she is.) 
Oh, and I'll sit with my three remaining sisters all dressed in black and white. Just yesterday, we discovered we each decided on black and white. Funny, too, because although our clothes won't be as chic as what Kathi would've worn, she, too, would've worn black and white. Probably stripes. 
Instead, she's all gray now, packed into a wooden box her son-in-law built for her. Is this all gruesome and sacrilegious enough?