I love this time of day. The silence is still dense, untouched by the noise of Atlanta traffic, leaf blowers, and delivery trucks. In these moments, it feels like you can hear the grass grow, like the whole world is holding its breath just for you.
I sat at the table Langston built about forty years ago and looked out at my garden. Every shrub, every flower bed, every winding brick path— all of it was imagined and cultivated by me. Hydrangeas heavy with bloom, roses I’d nursed through frost, a stubborn magnolia that refused to die. This house, this getaway home on the outskirts of Atlanta, was my unrealized concert hall.
A long time ago, in another life, I was a young, highly promising architect. I had the project of my dreams laid out before me: a new performing arts center downtown. My name was on the plans. I was chosen. I was funded. I remember the smell of thick blueprint paper, the scratch of a graphite pencil drawing the lines of a future marvel of glass and concrete. I used to fall asleep seeing the auditorium in my mind—tier upon tier of seats, a stage bathed in golden light.
Then came Langston with his first “genius” business idea: im
