She paused again to adjust the errant sock that kept sliding down into her boot, wiggling its way down past her ankle, wrapping her heel in a band of irritation that, while mild, was impossible to ignore, and reminding her, with every step, of how wrong her life was.
She had no need for rubber bands round her wrist, or strings tied round her finger, to remember the constant rattle of frustrations that rolled round her brain like the loose pebble that had worked its merry way into her other boot.
Adjustments made, she yet again straightened up, took a deep breath, and rolled her shoulders back in the way her yoga teacher had showed her, the way her P.E. coach in High School had repeatedly demonstrated, the way that girl who was studying to be a massage therapist and sat behind her in chemistry class at the community college had encouraged her, and now, the way her husband, so subtly, and so helpfully, and so constantly, adjusted her. She knew her posture would slowly sag into defeat and habit as she took the next few steps, but she was trying.
The canker sore, below and to the right inside her lower lip, throbbed its dull baseline of pain-pain-pain, and the steady aching, drum beat of pressure behind her cheeks, from the allergies, from the pollen, joined in to remind her, although she had not forgotten, that she could never escape, ever, from this all.
Would she ever get home? This interminable walk, so long, so the same, from the bus-stop to her house, past the perfect gardens, freshly painted houses, cars with no dents in their bumpers, yards with no weeds to be pulled, carports with no piles of junk that had to be thrown away, but when? They are always so busy, under the onslaught of children and work and all this life that has to be handled.
Finally. Home. The porch light is on, her family inside, waiting. Always.
Submitted to the Trifecta Writing Challenge: Week 81, a 33-333 word story, using the third definition of Light (noun):