BY HUILAN　

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　

        The red bean grows in South

        Its spare sprouts weave

with spring

        Glean some more for me, I pray

        So that you’ll see

        It’s the sign

of remembrance.              

This is an ancient Chinese poem. It is very famous in China. I read this poem for the first time when I was nine. Since then, I wanted to become a poet. And how I longed to have a red bean, a real poet’s red bean! After all, what was a poet without a real red bean? So I kept asking my classmate Xiaoyan for one, but she only had one herself and she would only smile and say sorry to me each time.

We were in an elementary school. Xiaoyan was a farmer’s daughter, but all of us lived in the city. The first time when she went to our class, she wore a very dirty and shabby skirt. The teacher told us Xiaoyan lived with her aunt after her parents died. She was good at all her subjects.

When Xiaoyan went into the classroom and wanted to take a seat, everyone told her that the seat had been taken. Then Xiaoyan changed the row for another seat. While she was walking near me, I just said, “you can sit near me if you want.” Then she sat near me without saying a word.

Soon we became very good friends. Every day we walked to class and went back home together. We were always the best students in our class.

Time passed. A new term was beginning. One day when we were climbing a mountain, Xiaoyan got so tired that she just couldn’t move a step further. She dropped to the ground and tears rolled down her cheeks.

Just then I caught her up. I sat down by her side, took out an apple to her as I usually did, but she refused it. “What happen to you?” I asked. “I am thinking this is the end.” She answered with a soft and quiet voice. “I won’t ask you for the red bean any more. I promise you, but you don’t cry, please.” I continued to say to her. However, she didn’t open her mouth this time. After a while, she told me she wanted home and she would like to see her parents very soon.

  The next week things were even worse. Xiaoyan didn’t come to class on Monday morning. It has never happened to her before. So I worried and ran to her aunt’s house at the break time. In a small and dark room, Xiaoyan was lying on her bed. Her face was pale, and her lips were white. Clearly she was very sick and was dying! Her eyes fell on me and she motioned me to come nearer. With an effort, she stopped her tears and smiled to me. She took out the red beans from a lovely box and passed them to me.

“These red beans were my mother’s. She left them to me before she was gone. She ……she wanted me to become a poet……. Now, I ……I want you to keep them.” She took a very long time to say these words. These were her last words.

    I cried out as if my heart would break. I lost my best friend at that moment. Three days later, I brought my first poem to Xiaoyan’s little mound. I didn’t cry when I was looking at her. I just put my poem to her quietly:

        I’m coming, little maid

        With the warm flame laden

        With the fruit for the trees

        With grain for the fields

        Every little stream is lively

        All the orchard trees are golden

        And on each small and waving shoot

        Hangs your dream