The First of May.
The First of May – The Silent Labor of the Heart. Last night I had a short but haunting dream about my late uncle, the man who adopted and raised me as his own. In the dream, he was lying in bed, waking from what seemed like a nightmare. He looked at me with fear and sorrow and said, “They robbed me of my dreams.” In his hand were several cigarette butts, and I found myself warning him, “One of these days you’ll set yourself on fire.” Then I woke up.
The dream left me shaken, for it stirred memories buried deep — memories of loss, regret, and unspoken love.
The First of May — a long weekend celebrated all over the world, known as Labor Day, International Workers’ Day, or simply May Day. But for me, it carries a very different meaning.
On the First of May, 1981, I had just returned to Malaysia from the United States for a short visit after being away for many years. That evening, while having dinner at one of my auntie’s homes, a stranger appeared at the door. He told me that my uncle — the man who had adopted and raised me as his own for twelve years — had collapsed at the junction leading to the main road.
He had parked his van by the roadside, stepped out clutching his chest, and fallen to the ground. Passersby had lifted his body into the back of the van, and the stranger said I should come quickly.
I left with him on his motorcycle and found my uncle already lifeless in the back of his vehicle. With some difficulty, I drove the van back to his house. I hadn’t driven in Malaysia for years, and after living in the U.S., where traffic flows on the opposite side, it felt disorienting — more so because I was now transporting the body of the man who had been like a father to me.
At his home, his wife and I prepared his body, cleaning him as he had soiled himself in the moment of his heart attack. I moved through those actions as though on autopilot, numb and detached, yet deeply aware. There was no room for emotion; I knew the responsibility of handling his funeral fell upon me — the eldest, even if only an adopted son.
Since then, every First of May awakens that memory — not the celebration of labor, but the quiet grief of that day. No one from my family came to pay their last respects to him, though he was my mother’s younger brother and the man who raised me when my parents could not.
I no longer ask why. I have learned that my brothers and sisters, too, bore their own wounds from the past — some inflicted by the same uncle who had given me shelter and guidance. Life has its tangled roots, and not all pain can be untied.
So I will bury this memory as one of those non-recyclable materials of life — best laid to rest with the deceased.
And as the Bee Gees once sang, “Guess who will cry come the First of May…”
Reflection
In the end, the First of May reminds me not so much of labor in the factories or offices of the world, but of the silent labor of the soul — the work of holding grief without bitterness, of forgiving where understanding fails, and of carrying forward the light of those who came before us. My uncle’s life, with all its struggles and missteps, taught me that even when dreams are stolen or broken, the effort to live, to give, and to love remains sacred.
So each year, when the First of May arrives and the world celebrates its workers, I bow inwardly to those who labored in ways unseen — the mothers, fathers, and guardians who bore their burdens quietly, often misunderstood, yet whose hands shaped the lives that followed. Their wages were not measured in coins or comfort, but in the endurance of the human heart.
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