Four years on, and this day—September 9, 2020—remains my most surreal and enduring memory of the pandemic.

Waking up during the 7 o’clock hour in early September in San Francisco usually means blinking away sunlight as it streams into our bedroom, while I fumble to snooze my iPhone alarm. Instead, it was curiously dark.

I didn’t think much of it as I stumbled through my morning ablutions and overnight work email catchup. It was 9 a.m. before I happened to peek out of our back window.

Six months into the pandemic lockdown, and I legitimately thought we’d finally reached Armageddon.

Our usually bright, almost Autumn morning was dark. Street lamps remained on, and morning songbirds stayed eerily silent. The pandemic lockdown already meant our neighborhood was quieter than usual, but this morning the streets were Zombie Apocalypse-level deserted.

It was hauntingly quiet.

Between meetings, I wandered down to Cole Valley. The N Judah station looked like the long-abandoned remnant of a distant civilization, and the usually bustling corner of Cole and Parnassus had but a few hardy souls brunching, as a lone dog walked its human.

My SFBA Friends iMessage group chat blew up that morning as we commiserated. “It’s the rapture,” cried Michael.

“I’m officially done with this year,” lamented Lisa.

“Me too,” agreed Kelly. “I think today’s orange sky is the day I finally lost it.”

We weren’t the only ones. Bay Area Twitter lit up, and the skies made national headlines, with some incredible photos.

The combination of the usual San Francisco fog, coupled with massive wildfires throughout the Bay Area, had conspired to blot out the sun and turn the sky a dusky orange this day four years ago. These images are now indelibly etched into my brain.