My father’s chair arrived after he died

Dear Delyara, For the last year of my father’s life, he kept complaining that his old armchair hurt his back. He would sit down, shift three times, put a cushion behind himself, then complain that the cushion was worse. My sister and I finally ordered him one of those expensive electric recliners. Dad protested about the price, then secretly asked me what color I had chosen. Dark green. His favorite. The delivery was delayed twice. Dad died on Sunday. The chair arrived this morning. I had forgotten to cancel it. Two delivery men carried it through the front door while I stood there explaining, stupidly, “It was for my dad.” They became very quiet. One asked whether I wanted them to take it back. I should have said yes. Instead, I told them to put it in his usual corner. Now a brand-new chair is sitting where my father spent years becoming old. No dent in the cushion. No biscuit crumbs down the side. No worn patch where his hand rested. It looks obscene in its perfection. Tonight, I sat in it and pressed the button. The footrest rose slowly. Dad would have loved it. That sentence has become unbearable because there are suddenly so many things he would have loved that arrived after there was no longer anybody to receive them.