The other day when I carried out our stinky smelly trash that I had already avoided taking out for far too long, I saw a discarded rosary in front of the complex’s trashcan. I tossed the garbage away and bent down to inspect it closer. It had a silver cross with a silver Jesus hanging from it, paired with silver and blue beads—the blue ones almost looking like purple diamonds and the silver ones round with even tinier silver pearls surrounding the hole on each side. I held onto the Jesus—I wasn’t sure if he was plastic or metal—and the beads dangled tangling together. The string was all in knots. I wondered who had discarded it—surely they had heard it clatter to the ground, like someone stepping gently on the gravel behind them—but for some reason they left it behind. Maybe it broke them, maybe they broke it, maybe they had it in their back pocket when they took out their own trash. They hoisted it over their heads and it just somehow fell, a bead shattered, and the whole thing tumbled into itself. I held it and let it go too. It didn’t feel like it was mine to take. I had my own rosary to bear.