. It's called SeedFolks, by Paul Fleishman. Some of you might of heard of it. This story is a good one. There's people in it from all around the world! This story is really long. XD Hes chapter one:
Kim~
I stood before our family alter. It was dwan. No one else in the apartment was awake. I stated at my father's photograph, his thin face stern, lips latched tight. I was nine years old and still hope that perhaps his eyes might move. Might notice me.
The candles and the incense sticks, lit the day before to mark his death anniversary, had burned out. The rice and meat offered him were gone. After the evening feast, past midnight, I'd been wakened by my mother's crying. My oldest sister had joined in. My own tears had then come as well, but for a different reason.
I turned from the alter, tiptoed to the kitchen, and quietly drew a spoon from a drawer. I filled my lunch thermos with water and reached into our jar of dried lima beans. Then I walked outside to the street.
The sidewalks was completely empty. It was Sunday, early in April. An icy wind teetered trash cans and turned my cheeks to marble. In Vietnam we had no weather like that. Here in Cleveland people call it spring. I walked half a block, then crossed the street and reached the vacant lot.
I stood tall and scouted. No one was sleeping on the old couch in the middle. I'd never entered the lot before, or wanted to. I did so now, picking my way between tires and trash bags. I nearly stepped on two rats gnawing and froze. Then I told myself that I must show my bravery. I continued father and chose a spot far from the sidewalk and hidden from view by rusty refrigerator. I had to keep my project safe.
I took out my spoon and began to dig. The snow had melted, but the ground was hard. After much work, I finished one hole, then a second, then a third. I thought about how my mother and sisters remembered my father, how they know knew his face from every angle and held in their fingers the feel of his hands. I had no such memories to cry over. I'd been born eight mouths after he'd died. Worse, he had no memories of me. When his spirit hovered over our alter, did it even know who I was?
I dug sic holes, all his life in Vietnam my father had been a farmer. Here our apartment house had no yard. But in that vacant lot he would see me. He would watch my beans break ground and spread and would notice with pleasure their pods growing plump. He would see my patience and my hard work. I would show him that I could raise plants, as he had. I would show him that I was his daughter.
My class had sprouted lima beans in paper cups the year before. I now placed a bean in each of the holes. I covered them up, pressing the soil down firmly with my fingertips. I opened my thermos and watered them all. And I vowed to myself that those beans would thrive.
That was the first chapter. I'll post 2nd chapter later