It was late summer of 1993, and my father was dying of cancer in a Florida hospital. My sister, my wife, and I had flown in to see him for what we knew would be the last time. We spent the morning gathered around his hospital bed, talking with him about the weather.

In the mid-afternoon, the nurse informed us that he needed to rest. My mother — always a practical woman — took us aside. “We ought to pick out a coffin,” she said.

So it was that we found ourselves in the showroom of a nearby funeral home, surrounded by sample caskets. Though they varied in shape and color, all were exquisitely crafted, lovingly detailed, and polished to a high gleam. “What do you think of this one?” my mother said. She gestured toward a breathtaking work of mahogany, lined with billowing satin.

“It’s beautiful,” I said. “Nicer than any piece of furniture I’ve ever owned.”

“The lining seems thin,” she said.

“I’m sure he’ll be comfortable,” I said, only half hoping she wouldn’t hear me. I glanced at the small, elegant placard that quoted a “before need” price of $28,000. “You’re going to put this in the ground?” I said.

“Well, which one would you choose?” my mother asked.

I pointed to a casket in the corner of the room. It was a plain, unfinished pine box, simple but competently constructed. It was priced — still a bit exorbitantly, I thought — at $500. It seemed eminently suited to its purpose, which would be to hold a body and then to decompose.

“What about that one?” I said.

My mother turned to me, her eyes daggers in wet pools. “Mark,” she said, “this is your father we’re talking about.”

My father, I’m reasonably sure, would have been satisfied with the pine box, which was actually in keeping with Orthodox Jewish tradition. My mother’s attitude was clearly not unusual, however. It seems that many people would rather see their loved ones depart in a Rolls Royce than a Hyundai, even though the destination is the same.

I’m not sure why this is. It can’t just be about appearances — if it were, I’m sure that funeral homes would be falling over themselves to offer coffin rental services, where the deceased is displayed in an antique Chippendale during the funeral and gets swapped into a sturdy cardboard carton before burial.

My guess is that it has more to do with the desire for immortality. People seem to be comforted by the idea that they and their loved ones will live on, in one way or another, after death. Providing the deceased with a congenial environment helps us hold on to the idea that the person we loved is still there, somehow.

My wife likes to say, “You remain alive for as long as people still remember you.” It’s a beautiful sentiment, but even if it’s true, that condition merely postpones mortality; it doesn’t eliminate it. People’s memories of you will not last more than a few generations. The things you touched will decay or be thrown away. The passage of time will wear your granite headstone smooth. More than 100 billion people have lived on this earth; most of them have left no trace.

Personally, I feel no need to believe that any part of me will remain after I’m gone. People will remember me as long as they wish to, and then they won’t; the life I lived will have been the same either way. After discussing it with my wife, who is the one who will be most affected, I decided to donate my body to science, where I hope it will benefit someone. Whether or not my life ultimately has any meaning, I can at least have it end with my being useful.