After the Joy
by Azam Abidov
(Dedicated to brilliant April writers-in-resident in Uzbekistan)
Alone again,
after twenty days of wonder—
twenty days of stories shared,
laughter spilled,
and silences held gently
in the arms of Uzbekistan.
I vacuum the rooms,
but the air still hums
with echoes of friends.
The soft beep
of Irena’s father’s Cobalt
lingers in my ears—
a quiet symbol
of daily care and quiet strength.
Red flowers bloom again
through memory,
wrapped in the folds
of Hau’s flowing black dress,
where elegance met the spring wind.
I try to dance like Jorma—
his wild joy,
his fearless steps—
but I am too grounded,
too nostalgic now.
Henrietta—
so soft-spoken,
yet her voice carried us all,
from language to understanding.
Muhsine’ laughter—
sunlight in motion—
breaking through tiredness,
through dust,
through the absence of toilets
on endless roads.
Mohammad plays
with Yulduzcha, the cat,
their quiet mischief
a secret woven into the corners
of the courtyard.
Maria peeks from the yurt,
eyes full of poems
not yet written.
I searched for karnay and surnay,
those golden trumpets of celebration—
but perhaps next time
they will greet me at dawn.
Boyan,
thoughtful as a diplomat,
wise as an old soul—
he listens like a forest.
Rohila never stopped filming,
never stopped witnessing—
her lens, a bridge
between the fleeting and the forever.
And Çağnam—
bright as morning,
easy as breeze,
brilliant in every conversation,
her energy lifting us
when the days grew long.
A spark that turned moments
into memories.
I make pilaf.
We gather like family.
We eat.
We laugh.
We cry.
We toast to life—
messy, magical,
and utterly alive.
Now, in the quiet yard,
with the sun leaning low,
I breathe in the stillness.
And gently ask myself:
What now?
What next?
What flame do I carry forward?
