After I died many things troubled me, for I had been unprepared, besides being, at my best, of an uncertain temper. What bothered me most often, though, was something trivial – the fact that I had no pockets.
As a child I had delighted to stuff my pockets full of oddments, including marbles, strange rocks, small pieces of metal, and the keys to doors long since gone to dust. Older, I spent much time with my hands in my pockets – self-contained and self-sufficient, a small, sulky universe which had set up business in defiance of the larger ones around him.
For some reason, all the newly dead are given cats. A ghost’s cat is much like any other save that it needs no litter box and can speak. Now that I think of it, it may be that I was given to the cat, and only my egotism makes me see it as having been the other way round. In any event, the cat with whom I was associated called himself Braggi; he was unsympathetic about my need for pockets. “They only make you lazy,” he said.