Memories from long ago

From mid January through May 2013, I wrote sporadically. I believed during the early months of this year my grief and sorrow prevented me from writing for this was the time 4 years earlier when cancer ravaged my husband's body. I did not want to believe I had tumbled into depression. It is only looking back on those months that I can acknowledge my depression (which disappeared when I visited my sisters and mom) and its debilitating effect.
I could not write. I had nothing to say. I'd just finished rereading 'The Women's Room' (Marilyn French) that I'd read over thirty years ago when I was a graduate student. I looked around my world and deduced that all the promise of that long ago time had come to nothing. It was like my whole life, all my activism, had come to nothing.
Over the past several weeks, researching the events from the 1960-70s has rekindled my passion from that time. I realize I have something to say. I write my stories, filled with such hope for a different future  but with the knowledge that little of that promised future remains today.