You are an Onion Skin

Over time, my friend, you have become an onion skin.  To be sure, you were once much more.  You had a smile, no doubt and a memorable (though not memorable enough) laugh as well.  Past that, you probably told some good jokes, could hold a conversation and maybe you could even dance.

Now all you are is that moment when I cut an onion and I recall that I should throw away not just the onion skin but the layer just underneath the skin as well.  That is the advice that our friendship has left me with.  You are that memory.  You are that stimulus and response loop that revolves around which piece of food to place in the compost and which piece to put in the pan.

What am I to you now?  Am I an onion skin too?  Maybe I'm improper flossing technique.  I have another friend who has become nothing but that.  Every night, she arises in the form of dental criticism when I reach for the box of floss.  All I hear is her voice (though I can't actually recall what that sounds like) telling me that I'm doing it wrong.  She was probably funny too, like you were (maybe) but now she is hygienist with only one piece of advice.

Maybe I'm nothing to you.  There's probably lots of old friends of mine who are now nothing to me but how would I know?