Small Rituals by Michelle Fitzgerald

I empty your pockets to find a carefully curated collection of trinkets and talismans from your day.

Tiny quartz pebbles.
Flower petals. 
A pint-sized lime, unripe from our tree.

As I load the washing machine, I glance out the window at the back garden. Stick in hand, you’re outlining protective dirt circles whispering secrets to a nearby Willie Wagtail. He ruffles his tiny feathers in knowing agreement. I notice a repetitive pattern of movements as you circle, sing, and chatter away. 

Tucked under your arm is Brownie, a palm-sized matted plush dog, spotted and dotted all over with brown and black. You are never without him. He holds the love and protection you grant him, sending it back to you whenever you need, particularly at night, watching over you as you sleep, keeping the darkness at bay. 

The Willie Wagtail flies over to our bird bath. You bask in his ritual of splashing and washing as he sings a pleasant squeak of whistled notes in pure delight.

In folk tales, feeding birds is a symbolic act that can signify kindness, good fortune, and a spiritual connection to nature. It represents a reciprocal relationship with the natural world, showing respect for all living things and ensuring blessings, prosperity, or a good harvest. 

Tucked under your other arm is a squished, half-eaten Vegemite and cheese sandwich. A black crow swoops down onto our outdoor table and watches the Willie Wagtail bathe, joyfully unaware of its audience. I observe as you offer him a torn off corner of your thrice bitten sandwich. Determined to handfeed him, you hold it out hopefully, but he is wary. You eventually throw it out on the table for him to take. He snaps it up, inhaling it down. You wave him goodbye as his shadowy silhouette flaps into the vast blue sky. 

Spiritually, feeding black crows often symbolizes respecting ancestors, fulfilling duties, showing gratitude for nature, and attracting blessings in some traditions.

You move onto our concrete carport as a thick black line of ants weave through the many obstacles littered throughout the space – mini trampoline, bicycle, woven basket full of picnic supplies and your mud kitchen utensils strewn about haphazardly. You kneel and inspect the ants dutifully as you sing softly to yourself.

The ants go marching two by two
Hurrah, Hurrah
The ants go marching two by two
Hurrah Hurrah

Suddenly you look up and see me looking back at you through the laundry window. 

‘Mama, I fed Mr. Crow!’ You boom out to me excitedly. 

‘I fed him a bite of my Vegemite sandwich. I thought he was going to land on my arm. But he didn’t. Maybe tomorrow he will…’

I nod in vigorous agreement. 

You scooter over to our towering Lilly Pilly tree. You gather fistfuls of the fallen pinkish red medicine berries and place them into your basket. You deliver them swiftly to your mud kitchen and pop them into one of the many motley containers and misshapen receptacles holding the secrets of your potions – tan bark, sand, pebbles, flower petals and leaves. You ladle rainwater, collected in your nearby wheelbarrow and spoon it into your silver metal bowl forming the centre sink of your kitchen. 

‘I’m making a magical potion!’ You call out to no one in particular. 

With a steely focus you place all manner of enchanted garden supplies into your bowl of water. You mix it frantically, as debris flies out all around you. I can see you muttering under your breath, but I can’t quite make it out. 

Mr. Crow
Come to me
Mr. Crow
Come to me

It is the incantation of a four-year-old suburban backyard witch. I join you outside, so I can listen to your spell more clearly and so I can reinforce its power with my synchronous choral chanting. You smile as I join in with your rhythmic repeated chorus.

Mr. Crow
Come to me
Mr. Crow
Come to me

Together we chant. Louder and louder with each cycle. 

Mr. Crow
Come to me
Mr. Crow
Come to me

Suddenly you stop and I follow your lead, echoing your silence. In hushed urgent tones, you whisper to me. 

‘Tomorrow Mr. Crow will land on my arm. The fairies told me. And that tree.’

You gesture to our Lilly Pilly tree. I believe you. And the fairies. But most of all I believe in our Lilly Pilly tree.

It is said that the Lilly Pilly tree is a gift from the Spirit of the Waters who moved unseen through the world, whispering wisdom to those who listened. 

My four-year-old witch is fully aware of her power and the magic around her. 

I send my own spell out into the world of the unseen and whisper my wise wishes for her into the universe.

My sweet girl,
May you never lose your power
Or wonder
Or magic.
As you grow up
As you grow old
May your heart be ever warm
And never grow cold.

I grab a nearby wart-bumped stick and outline a circle in the dirt, protecting us from harm. 

I pat my pocket to find your trinkets and talismans, and I know in my heart, they’ll work their suburban backyard magic, like a charm. 

Michelle Fitzgerald is an Australian mother, writer and performing arts teacher, rebelliously raising her young daughter on Wadawurrung Country. Michelle was recently selected for Immerse 2026 a playwriting residency with La Mama Theatre; their flagship development program supporting bold, rigorous and future-facing independent theatre practice. In 2025 Michelle was Longlisted for the Richell Prize For Emerging Writers and Shortlisted for the Finest 500 Writing Prize. Her writing is featured in Jenny, Solstice Literary, Mutha, Motherlore and Howl magazine.