Sin. The first phase of a heartbeat is known as early diastole. It is when the semilunervalves close and the atrio ventricular valves open and the whole heart is relaxed. I was five when I first learned I was Muslim. It was after I'd spent a relaxing preschool day as the proud master of my domain, the sandlot. I created paved roads with small plastic shovels, molded houses without interiors, constructed schools and churches without students or followers. As I toiled away at my miniature representation of the world, my shovel exposed the shiny object in the sand. It was a gold cross pendant on a necklace. Immediately I cleaned it off and placed it around my neck. The crucifix swung low below my heart. Moments later I saw my father's olive green, plymeth valiant pull up in the school driveway. I ran to greet him. Daddy, daddy, look what I found today. He knelt down and caught me in his arms. What is it? Show me, hubby, he said in an English accent, the result of British schooling in Egypt. Look, it's a necklace just like all the other kids wear. I said with wide innocent eyes. Oh wow, that's a big necklace. May I see it? He took it off and I took it off and handed it to him. He suddenly turned and gave it to my preschool teacher. Hey, that's mine. I yelled that she took it and walked away. Habibi, it's not yours. Someone lost it and she will help them find it. Now yellow. I followed him to the car and got into the front passenger seat. We drove off, pulled into the left turn lane and stopped at a red light. Do you know who we are? He said, looking down at me? What? I asked scratching my chest, feeling for a remainder of the cross. We are Muslims. We are not Christians. He seemed to be struggling for the right words to say that a five-year-old might understand. I listened but gave him no response. Only Christians wear that necklace. You are not a Christian. You are Muslim. Your name is Muhammad. You cannot wear this. I accepted my faith but cried silently. I loved that necklace. I adored the feeling of shiny gold on my skin. I felt guilty inside as if I misbehaved at birth. I didn't want to be different. The next day my mother picked me up from school. I ran to her as I always did after a long day of play. Mommy, mommy, mommy! Oh my heavens, look how dirty you are! She said in that native text in accent hers. Come on now. Let's go home and clean you up. I hopped into the passenger seat and waited for her to sit at the wheel. Mommy, yes, Maddie. That was her pet name for me. What is it? Are you a Christian or a Muslim? I'm a Christian, she said, with slight hesitation. Do you have to pray? Of course I pray. I pray in church on Sundays. You don't pray all day like Muslims. She left. We'll know. But I pray in my heart all the time. Mommy, I said watching another church pass by the car window. Why can't I be Christian?