I stared at the small woman in the casket. She was a stranger to me, and I only knew one of those people among me who mourned her death; my girlfriend, who I was in a failing relationship with. This was one of those instances where I deeply wanted to be there for her, as a sign of effort, of solidarity. It was a small gathering, at a funeral home in New York State. I stood there in my pinstripe blazer, the one I’d purchased back when I first made the bonehead mistake of getting a credit card in my youth. The blazer and my black dress shirt, and my black jeans, and my beat-up dress shoes I wore to work which were covered…