I’ve lived in Eden Prairie, Minn. for the overwhelming majority of my life — about 17 years, if my math is correct. I’m not going to pretend I love it, but I’m used to it. It’s been the setting of my last 17 years, and that’s got to count for something.

I’m leaving in less than a month, and I still can’t wrap my brain around the simple fact that Eden Prairie will exist without me. It sounds silly when I write it, but it’s the truth. I’m leaving Eden Prairie behind, and it’s going to go on in my absence.

Not that there’s much to go on, truthfully. The high school’s got a football team that usually does pretty well, and the hockey team’s not bad either. There’s a coffee shop that the young people like to frequent, which some city officials try unsuccessfully every year to close down. Ten years ago, we were one of the top cities in America to raise a family in. Today, we’re one of the top places to retire. I’m leaving this behind, and all of it will exist without me.

Case in point: My brother Andy got his license this summer, which was mind-blowing on its own merits. He picked up his schedule and parking permit a couple of days ago. My brother, a junior in high school, driving himself to school. When I got my license, I felt mature. When he got it, I felt old. It was like this small, almost insignificant function I served — driving him to school the past two years — was no longer my responsibility.

It’s not something intentional on his part, of course. While I’m weighing the existential implications of my absence, he just needs a way to get to school every day.

“Eden Prairie will go on without me.” I just have to keep saying it, and maybe I’ll start understanding it. Maybe it’ll start making some sense to me.

The summer after seventh grade, I went off to computer camp. I spent maybe two weeks away from my house, staying at the University of Minnesota. While I was gone, the city of Eden Prairie began work on a new strip mall. They started by chopping down a sizable piece of wooded land along one of the city’s main roads. These were familiar woods; my parents and I had driven past them more times than I could count. It was an example of what we do in Eden Prairie: cut down the forests to build strip malls.

I still remember how shocked I was when I came home and found that the woods had disappeared. I wasn’t an environmentalist, but I was so baffled that this major change to the Eden Prairie landscape had taken place in the two weeks I had been out of town. It’s fine if they cut down all the trees in the city, but at least have the courtesy to do it while I’m home.

I don’t love Eden Prairie, not by any stretch of the imagination. I’m definitely eager to get out and experience more of the real world — the world outside the high fences and endless suburban parking lots.

“Eden Prairie will go on without me.” Still sounds weird.

I can’t help but wonder if this is all some big lesson in object permanence. There’s a world beyond my own experiences, whether I’m part of it or not. It’s like when a baby closes his eyes, and the world seems to disappear. The baby has no way of knowing that the world is still out there, because the infant mind doesn’t realize that things exist outside of its own range of senses. Baby closes eyes, baby can’t see anything — ergo, there must not be anything to see. I’ll admit that there is a certain appeal to that kind of intellectual simplicity.

The concept of object permanence is that the brain eventually recognizes the world as a permanent entity, but I’m learning now that I’ve still got a lot of development ahead. If I want this whole “college” thing to have any chances of panning out, object permanence is something I’m going to achieve.

A couple of nights ago, I asked my parents to send me copies of my high school newspaper when I’m at Northwestern. I used to be on the paper staff, and I’m curious to see what their paper will look like this year. Yes, Eden Prairie will go on without me.

But I want to see what that Eden Prairie without me will look like. Maybe this is arrogant, but I don’t think I’m the only freshman asking this question:

My hometown will go on without me, but what will it look like?