Write Right - Unfinished

Her eyes were blue, I think, or green. I never really knew, as we hardly made eye contact; she was so shy. Her hair was brown, her waist was tiny, and her English was good. She, at the same time, was incredibly different from and exactly like her family.
Her older brother was most like her, and their mother. Quiet, but sweeter than the cantaloupe we would eat before meals. Brother, sister, mother were soft-spoken; the former were both incredibly gifted, musically. They tentatively accepted me into their family, but gladly accepted me into their home.
Her younger brother and father were the jokers in her family. They were friendly, open, made me feel at ease. Her father was so good with his English, and helped translate back and forth between us; her brother was hilarious, even in French. Both of them reminded me so much of my actual family back in America that it made me hurt.
She was like them too, my sister. After our trip to the music school, after sitting through accordion class, she opened like a book. We shared questions, culture differences, flute music. I showed her my Facebook; she was thrilled to see my family, friends, life. She left me fall asleep in the car on our trips into town, and on our final day as sisters, we took a trip together. She smiled, laughed; she opened up as she hadn’t before.
I saw the real her.
And then we parted, but stayed close. She was part of our music program in town; although she didn’t laugh as much, or talk as much, but she would smile and me, and I at her, and we held together as no other two did. After almost eleven days with her, with her family,