My colleague Alex Mann and I sat in a nondescript conference room in a generic government office building on what seemed like just another Friday.

We were talking with Anne Arundel County Executive Steuart Pittman and his health officer, Nilesh Kalyanaraman. It was March 6, 2020, the morning after then-Gov. Larry Hogan declared a state of emergency.

Three Montgomery County residents had tested positive for COVID-19 after returning from a trip to Egypt — signaling the start of the pandemic in Maryland.

I asked Alex the other day what he remembered from that meeting. Not much.

I can only recall convincing Kalyanaraman, now a deputy state health secretary, to sing the chorus from “Raspberry Beret” by Prince. He recommended its rhythms as a perfect timing for washing your hands correctly.

Most people are like us. Those of us who didn’t lose a loved one, friend or coworker have wiped the pandemic years from our memories, letting them drift into vague recollections.

Living through it, though, was like an endless bad dream — fear and isolation, parking lot lines for testing centers, shortages, shutdowns, masks, vaccinations and obituaries.

As we mark five years, you’re likely to hear a few voices like mine, suggesting there is value in looking back for meaning — for lessons from the past that we can take into the future.

I expect we’ll ignore the moment. Most of us, it seems, would rather forget any of it ever happened.

The single deadliest day in the pandemic arrived in the United States 10 months after that meeting in Annapolis, when 4,197 died nationwide on Jan. 12, 2021. It would be another year before the virus peaked in Maryland — 80 died on Jan. 18, 2022.

By the time Johns Hopkins University stopped counting in March 2023, 1.2 million people were dead in the United States — the highest COVID fatality numbers in the world. In Maryland, 16,544 people died.

Much of those first two years were filled with confusion, as public health officials tried to sort out the right things to do. Sometimes, missteps were caused by an imperfect understanding of the virus.

Mostly, they were the result of national leadership at the time. Plenty of good scientists and physicians were in place, but the country was rudderless under then-President Donald Trump, who repeatedly played down the threat. The result was fighting among political factions, blame‐shifting and a disorganized patchwork of local responses.

One analysis estimated that 60% of all COVID deaths between June 2021 and the following year could have been prevented by vaccinations.

In Maryland, Hogan stepped in where Trump feared to tread.

The state issued guidance to physicians in January 2020, and by March 3, the governor asked the General Assembly for $10 million in emergency funds. A week later, Hogan ordered schools to close for two weeks.

Counties across the state issued local emergency declarations, assuming power to enforce social distancing or find creative workarounds like restaurant dining in parking lots.

It was better here than in much of the country.

Not all of it worked. Even Hogan made mistakes.

When test kits were in short supply, he spent $11.9 million buying a planeload from Korea. But the governor’s credibility suffered when they didn’t work

As the numbers in Maryland peaked, hospitals were on the brink of failure. Tighter restrictions on public gatherings angered people who saw them as infringements on their freedom. They began to complain, protest and sue.

The Republican governor went from being a hero to his party to villain in chief, responsible for destroying liberty.

The teachers union fought school reopenings for two years, even after it was clear kids weren’t the vector for COVID infections that they are for colds and the flu.

Financial help came from the feds, first for businesses, and then for rent or mortgage payments. Money flooded state and local governments, funding food, housing and unemployment programs.

Some was used wisely, some was not. It created a $2.5 billion state budget surplus that evaporated and left the state with a $3 billion shortfall.

Everybody — everybody — felt they were wronged.

Parents watched their kids wither at home. Families couldn’t attend funerals. Religious services moved online. Businesses closed.

People deemed essential workers grew bitter. People whose jobs required showing up in person couldn’t work, while those who worked from home suffered from isolation.

Five years later, the sense of being screwed lingers.

It’s why the political right demonizes Dr. Anthony Fauci, the former head of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases and a truth-teller in the Trump White House.

We distrust government so much that voters put the party of dissolution into power, returning Trump to office to dismantle the systems most likely to protect us.

We’re so angry at the price of housing that we put our faith in billionaires, ignoring the history of wealth rarely giving a hoot for the greater good.

We’re so unable to see past our sense of greater injury — my pandemic hurt was worse than yours — that we speak at each other from silos.

Historians look back at the decade after the global flu pandemic of 1918 and see governments toppled, revolutions begun and the seeds of another world war.

Prohibition created a sense of lawlessness. The agrarian society dissolved as millions moved to the cities. Lynchings and massacres aimed at Black Americans revealed a core of hate.

When historians look back at this decade, they will see years of distrust and the changes it brings as the lingering effect of the pandemic.

How should we remember the pandemic? We begin by agreeing on what happened.

That should start at Westgate Circle, a small green space next to the National Cemetery in Annapolis. There’s a discussion underway about public art for the spot.

No idea could serve a higher purpose than memorializing the 16,544 Marylanders who died in the pandemic in Maryland’s state capital.

If we can recognize what we lost, we are halfway to understanding what comes next.