My Favorite Bottle

When I was six or seven years old, my mother, father, sister, brother and our neighbours went on a memorable trip. It was the first time I had witnessed a waterfall in real life, and I was left in wonder. It was so beautiful that (in my child brain) it was as if clouds were raining from the blue sky overhead. The waterfall was named Bopath Falls, and it was a place I would never forget.

The name Bopath WaterFall's, is derived from the shape of the waterfall itself. The water gushes through a small crevice among boulders, before it suddenly increases its volume and takes the form of a leaf of the sacred Bo tree, also referred to as ''bo'' in Sinhala. This is a tree of great significance in our culture, known as Ficus religiosa. Located in the vicinity are a breathtaking 30-meters (98-feet) high, and it is fed by a tributary of Kalu River, which is Kuru River.

We spent hours that day admiring the beauty of Bopath Waterfall and swimming in its cool, clear water. Our neighbor's grandfather, a regular at the waterfall, took us on a little adventure. He took us to the deeper parts of the waterfall, the sections no one else had gotten to. Though I was still a pretty child, it was soon a habit of mine to follow the advice of the old, especially regarding new places.

We were encased in a soundscape of rushing water, when grandpa told us the story of a man who once died for the lack of an inexpensive item. ''If you throw something in that deep part of the river,'' he said, ''it will never be seen again. Others have fallen into those waters and never returned.'' His words echoed in my ears but my imagination, as a little kid, was already running away with itself.

I had a little, beloved bottle I took everywhere, it always hung from my neck. The bottle was my friend, and I loved it dearly. And in that moment a devilish idea entered my head. ''I'll show you'' I decided my only choice was to toss my bottle into the river's deep abyss.

''Grandpa, your warning does not frighten me,'' I said. ''My bottle is going to come back up, I bet it!'' I threw the bottle into the deep river without a second thought.

Grandpa, my parents and the neighbors all laughed. They laughed at me, telling me that no matter how hard I may try, my bottle would never be seen again. ''You will never get that bottle back,'' they all said, smiling. Yet here I was, a young child, ever so defiant, anger and resolve rushing through me. I was angry at Grandpa for saying my bottle would be lost forever.

After a few hours pass, my mind fixates on my bottle. I couldn't shake the feeling that, if only, my bottle might wash back up surrounding a rocky outcropping. I begged my mother to buy me a new one, but even so, my heart clung to the innocent hope that my original bottle would somehow return.

A few hours when I least expected it, a voice I knew from the direction of the river called out. ''Whose bottle is this? Whose bottle is this?"

My heart skipped a beat. Could it be? Was it really my bottle?

I dashed toward the voice and, sure enough, my father had seen my bottle bobbing along in the river. Somehow, it had returned to my possession! I hugged the bottle tightly before tearing off the wrap, feeling an uncontainable joy.

It seemed as if some miracle had happened, and I was overjoyed.

When we got home. I removed the bottle from around my neck and placed it down. I took it to school with me for years afterward, as it stood for all of childhood's innocence and adventure. I would recall that unforgettable trip, to Bopath Waterfall, and the lesson I had learned about hope, persistence, and the magic that can sometimes happen in the most unexpected places , every time I looked at it.

Years later now, I still think of that trip and the treasured bottle. It is a reminder of the beauty around us in the world, the innocence of childhood, and the notion that, just sometimes, miracles do happen.