He was a shaman, gifted in seeing the divine in the invisible, capable of healing broken bones with his hands, and proficient in curing ailments with herbal potions. He would spend long stretches of time alone in the jungle, meditating, a monk versed in magic and mysticism, diligently unraveling the secrets of The Universe. My mother would speak of him with palpable reverence, every story gilding shining layers upon his legend. When I finally met my grandfather, he took our kitchen knife and pushed it firmly into his arm, repeatedly, to demonstrate the charm protecting his body. The skin was never penetrated and I slightly allowed myself to believe that my mother had been telling the truth all along.