There isn't a person who sees her who thinks she isn't trying. They know she is. They can see it in the lines that have formed besides her eyes, the ones originally crafted from laughter, now sculpted with grim determination. They can see it in the taught muscles of her neck and spine, from sitting ramrod straight for hours on end, pouring over radio snippets or a crumpled photograph. They can see it in her red-rimmed eyes (from crying or late hours, no one can tell, and no one dares ask). She tries.
It's difficult, of course. Regaining memory is always difficult, of course, but under her own special circumstances...it's far more troublesome. Though, if you asked her, she'd tell you she could care less about fitting into the 'modern age'. She only wants to remember. Hours, days, weeks of concentration, hard focus, often leaves her weakened or ill, propped in her bed as a nurse cares for her, giving her orders (which she follows, of course, she is a soldier after all): arm out, sit straight, inhale deep, exhale slow, etc, etc... And yet through the entire ordeal, she still reads a headline, a letter, an advertisement, hoping that the simplest word might bring back all that she lost.
She keeps no mementos of her family or friends from 'back then.' Says she doesn't want to remember saying her goodbyes, if she even said them. Doesn't want to remember who she lost back then. Some of the other agents call her heartless. She ignores them.
In reality, she keeps one photograph. A snapshot of what must have been a training day, judging by what the people in the shot are wearing. Though everyone is lined up, smiling, waving at the camera; a planned photo, then. A group of people, not large, but not minuscule, either. She only recognises a few faces: there's herself, of course, in her trousers and boots, smiling as broadly as you please; on her left, a familiar man ('Howard Stark,' she remembers with a fond roll of her eyes) with his arm snaked round her waist as though he had any right; a sturdy man with dark hair, laughter scrawled all over his face, American boy through and through; and another man, tall, broad shouldered, blond and bright-eyed. 'Captain America,' she's supposed to call him, though she refers to him (in speech and mind) as Rogers. Captain America, great war hero, savior of soldiers and civilians alike.
She'd known him, 'back then,' she already knew that. She didn't know how well, or for how long, but she'd known him. And if his fingers brushing her's in the photo stated anything, it was familiar. But she'd known him. They'd had conversations, made memories together, shared laughter perhaps. And she couldn't remember anything but a warm smile.
This was usually right around the time in trying when she would begin to quiver, and tears would spring to her eyes. She couldn't remember. Couldn't remember a damn thing about anyone, though the absence of him upset her more wildly than it should have. But she wanted to remember. That's all she'd wanted. But she couldn't; not yet, at least.
So she tried, harder and harder each time. She tried. And no one could doubt that she tried.
