Oma's hands are skeletal. The skin almost completely transparent, the flesh atrophied down to almost nothing. Tendons and metacarpals visible, bone-yellow, with deep trenches between them. Vessels, deep purple-gray, so many that those smallest must be arterioles - so that's what an arteriole looks like.
But the bones, that's what captivated me. A living skeleton, articulated for movement, still waving and gripping and dancing under its own strength - but strength from where, with no muscles left?
Strength nonetheless - she can't sit up anymore, but Oma can still grip your hand tight enough to hurt. 'I will break your bones!' she says, only in jest, but she's proud of the strength she still has in those gray fingers.
My own hands look fat to me now. I stretch my skin tight, trying to see through it - only a faint green shows where the larger veins run, otherwise, all is opaque yellow-white skin. I feel between the metacarpals, can't even make a dent - what's in there? Can't be anything important, if Oma's hands are so strong even with the trenches.
Just being able to see living bones, moving, alive...