When I was younger, I hated funerals, and avoided them as much as possible. Somewhere in my forties, I decided they weren't so bad.
Going to funerals was like a family reunion, really. Everyone sharing memories of the dear departed. It was sorta nice.
Sometime in my fifties, I started thinking about my own funeral. Of course, it wouldn't really matter what happened to my corpse, because I intended to be in a better place. But I like graveyards and tombstones, so I pictured myself having a simple funeral, a burial in my little town's cemetery, and a marker with my name on it. Markers are important because they tell the world that, at one time, you existed.
Now that I'm in my sixties, though, it really doesn't matter. I wouldn't mind knowing my ashes would be scattered back at the cabin, or down by the Missouri river at farmer Steve's place. I rather like the idea, in fact. I would still like a marker to tell the world I had been here, though.
But if that bothered my relatives, it's OK, whatever they do. Anything that gives comfort to the living is fine with me. The dead aren't bothered by silly details.
Cremation, with ashes left to be scattered, is much cheaper. Just so you know.
My soul isn't going to care.