"If memories were flowers, I could walk in your garden forever."

When my mother passed in 2021, I spent a lot of time thinking about her love of gardening. The quote above, from Tennyson, became a truth. I wrote a story about a family trip to California. My mother's frontal temporal lobe Alzheimer's had already set in, and she was struggling to remember things from her childhood, our childhood—even things from the week prior. 

On the way to our rental house, I couldn’t recall the name of the purple trees and mentioned that I thought they were beautiful. She immediately told me a story about jacaranda, and about all the flowers in the garden her mother had in Barstow. She was always good at remembering the proper names of flowers, often citing their Latin names. We spent the entire ride talking about gardening. Later, she would forget which door in the house we were renting led to the bathroom and started to cry. She wanted to go home, and we were not sure which home she was imagining returning to. Still, that moment talking about flowers meant so much that all the other traumas could be forgotten. 

It’s not that simple when you lose a child. 

Our son was only 17 when he died by suicide. When your child dies, no matter the cicumstance, everything shifts. Every little thing becomes amplified in your mind because… seventeen years. That’s all you have. Conversations about trees, like the jacaranda lesson with my mother, become significant. They become everything. 

Perhaps that’s how our positive sign company took root. 

There were conversations about otherworldly signs from our son—literal and figurative—each one pointed out with the hope that it was more than just what we needed it to be. As a teenager, he loved collecting signs in metal and wood, the more nonsensical the better. They brought him joy and made him laugh more than any meme or something shared online. I’m sure it was part of childhood whimsy, but it seemed his old soul was playful in a way that sought joy in every small detail. 

Often, people who struggle to feel joy are eager to make sure others around them are happy and full of light. He had so much light to give.  

As Positive Sign Company grew, it became clear to our family that it doesn’t just represent those we have lost. More than that, they give light and joy to those walking in their own gardens. I imagine someone reading a Positive mini sign next to a flower whose name only my mother would remember. Or a teen catching a glimpse of a Positive ornament at home or at a friend’s home and feeling safe to open up, to share, to connect. Or a stranger seeing a sign on the wall that makes the space feel safe -at work, at home, anywhere- and they are quietly reminded to stay, to keep going, to live. 

In this modern era—which I’m fully part of—I know we all long for connection, for meaning, for light. 

This past weekend, we participated in our first farmer’s market. The sales were good, but that is not what I’ll remember. I’ll remember the conversation with a teacher that will lead to a collaboration to bring positive messaging to elementary students, the tears from a stranger who did not share her story but thanked us through her tears, the friends who came by to say hello- some of whom I hadn’t seen in over 20 years, and the preschoolers who we gave tiny duckies and the way they carried them, open palmed, a huge smile on their face, ready to care for their little duckies.  

Since Saturday, we’ve already received orders for wellness packs (little mini signs for houseplants and gardens with Positive messages like Want to talk?, and Keep Going, Tomorrow Needs You, and You are loved. I don’t know if signs come from those we lost or from the universe or if we seek them out, but I do know taking a moment to connect can sometimes be the healing someone needs at exactly the right time. 

As for me, I will walk in my mother’s and my son’s garden of memories together, but just as Positive Signs reminds, I know now that I don’t have to do it alone.