The cup has a small chip near the handle.
I turn that side away when I drink. The movement has become automatic, a tiny accommodation made over years. A new cup would be smoother, but I would have to learn its weight from the beginning.
Keeping an object allows this sort of knowledge to accumulate. We come to understand its weaknesses, the repair it needs, the particular way it serves a familiar task.
Some things have reached the end of their usefulness. Others simply look old beside the promise of a replacement. It takes a little patience to tell which is which.
This morning, the cup holds the tea perfectly well. I turn the handle toward me and sit down.